


my firefly;

by thedarklings



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Androids, F/M, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Other, Reader-Insert, Robot/Human Relationships, Sad Ending, TEARS WERE SHED IN THE MAKING OF THIS PRODUCTION
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-02 01:03:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15785781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedarklings/pseuds/thedarklings
Summary: “You already know how this will end Connor.”





	my firefly;

**Author's Note:**

> I HIGHLY recommend listening to Fourth of July by Sufjan Stevens since this entire piece was written while listening to it on repeat.

“I love you.”

Eyes wide with shock, you stare at him in silence and Connor realises that he is  _nervous_. Shaky with worry that maybe he was wrong, maybe you didn’t feel the same way he did. Didn’t feel the same level of longing and adoration he did. That maybe every hug and touch and graze of skin was nothing more than some impossible dream.

Except your expression warps, shifts, and a grin—wide, beaming, beautiful thing that he adores so much—overtakes your startled expression. You practically sprint at him; smile glowing, arms tight as they wrap around his shoulders and he catches you effortlessly around the waist, pulling you closer.

“I love you too Connor. I-I love you too,” you breathe against the artificial cast of his skin, and Connor feels it then.

Feels what it’s like to taste true happiness.

Feels what it’s like to embrace forever.

**.  .  .**

“ _Yes_.”

It rattles him. Unmakes him with such brutal accuracy that he feels his hands shake (“ _When did you become so weak Connor? So human, so pathetic?_ ”) as they reach for you. Your face is open and full of love and you look like you’re about to cry and he doesn’t want  _that_. All he wants is for you to be happy and with him.

And…

“ _Yes_ ,” you say shakily again, laughing as you wipe a stray tear that escapes down your cheek. He reaches for your warm skin, brushes the tears away himself and kisses your cheek once, twice; kisses it till he can taste your tears on his tongue. Even though he usually hates the idea of you crying, he knows these tears are happy and full of your love as he folds you closer to his chest, an all consuming sort of lightness taking his own voice away. “Yes, yes, yes. A thousand times  _yes_.”

 _Is this true happiness_ , he wonders distantly as you kiss him and he burns, burns,  _burns_.

(“ _No, this is the beginning—_ ”)

**.  .  .**

“How long will you love me?” you teasingly ask and he shudders at the feeling of you laying butterfly kisses down his neck. Your hands—fragile, and so very human—lovingly tracing down his bare chest, and Connor sighs. Sighs and wonders how he’s so lucky to have you, to have your love.

He catches your small fingers in his, and gently ghosts his lips over the delicate skin of your knuckles. He holds them close, cradles them to him because there is no inch of you that he does not cherish, does not adore.

“Forever, (Name),” he murmurs and kisses you knuckles, chuckling softly when he feels you prop your chin on his shoulder and stare up at the sky with him.

The moon is large and luminous, and breathtaking in its beauty. Over the recent years Connor has grown to appreciate the beauty in simple things: a smile, a laugh, a beautiful flower or a song. Such simple, human things.

“I will love you  _forever_ ,” he promises fervently, quietly, in the space between you that bleeds with mute longing he dares not to voice.

 _I wish I was human_.

_I wish I could give you a lifetime like you are giving me yours._

_I wish I could make you more than just a glimpse, a break, a fragment in my endless existence._

“Well you’re stuck with me forever now, so you have no choice,” you say with a warm laugh, and he feels hollow hands squeeze his chest, feels his biocomponents protest under invisible strain.

_Our forevers don’t measure up (Name)._

He wants to say it,  _needs_ to say it, but instead he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses the ring finger where a band of metal now snugly sits.

 _Happy_.

He should be so happy.

He  _is_.

“I love you Connor.”

He kisses you desperately, hungrily, knowing that he needs to claim as many as he can before—

“I love you (Name).  _I love you_.”

 _Please don’t ever leave me._    

**.  .  .**

Sumo leaves first.

Hank cries.

He pretends he doesn’t, and Connor wonders why.

But he does not ask because deep down he thinks he knows why.

So he simply holds you in his arms, and feels the heat of your tears soak his shirt.

(“ _This is the beginning of the end—_ ”)

**.  .  .**

He notices.

Of course he does.

A new wrinkle that was not there the day before.

A strand of grey.

 _Merciless hand of time_.

Connor sees it.

He sees  _everything_.

And that’s his curse.

To see, and not be able to do anything to change it.

**.  .  .**

“How do you measure love Lieutenant?”

“You don’t measure love, idiot. You just love someone. It’s the little moments.”

Little moments?

 _Moments_.

How does he explain the terrible truth he already knows then?

He exists in a  _thousand_ moments.

You exist in a  _single_ one.

(“ _You already know how this will end Connor_.”)  

**.  .  .**

One day you fall sick.

It begins as a cold that progresses from bad to  _worse_.

There is nothing— _nothing_ on this entire planet that unleashes a greater flood of terror in him. Connor watches you constantly, soothing your burning face with his colder fingers. He carefully makes sure you take all your medicine, that you have plenty of food and water.

He doesn’t leave your side because he’s  _terrified_.

So terrified that if he looks away for a single second you will slip away. That you will leave him here without your warmth.

_Please, just hold on for a little while longer. Please don’t go just yet. Give me a little bit more time._

Please.

 _Please_.

_**Please.** _

(“ _No, this is the beginning of the end. After all, why would a God grieve for a Firefly that is destined to fade away into oblivion? You already know how this will end Connor._ ”)

**.  .  .**

Three days later the fever breaks.

You get better. Slowly, but surely.

Smiles, kisses and adoring touches; you’re back with him again.

But there is no relief.

There is only dread.

**.  .  .**

“One day you will fade away from me. One day you will leave me all alone, and there is  _nothing I can do—_ ”

**.  .  .**

“Things...things are more precious because they don’t last Connor,” Hank breathes laboriously, and Connor feels his fingers tighten around Lieutenant’s frail ones. “You asked me once if there was a way to measure love. There isn’t you damn  _idiot_. But...you love someone and that’s it. You  _love_...you take care of each other you damn…”

Connor does not pull away.

Not when Hank’s hand goes slack in his own.

Not when the sound of the heart monitor becomes a flat shriek.

He only pulls back when you let out a wail of anguish so heartbreaking, Connor can feel every terrible fiber of him bristle in shared agony.

He holds you, and holds you as you cry for hours.

He does not cry.

He is not human after all.

_I’m...I’m tired. I’m so very tired now._

**.  .  .**

They live.

They die.

Such is the nature of human life.

One brief, shining moment that disappears into blackness.

Like fireflies.

You cannot measure  _love_ , just like you can’t measure  _eternity_.

Connor knows this.

_You can’t run from the truth forever._

He already knows how this will end.

**.  .  .**

“Eternity without you, isn’t eternity (Name). It’s  _ **hell**_.”

**.  .  .**

“Why are you crying Connor?”

Because he knows that this time no matter how much he  _begs_ there will be no answer. No salvation. No  _mercy_.

He cradles your old, weathered fingers against his cheek. Same smooth, unchanged skin so unlike your own, and he wants to  _scream_. Wants to tear the room apart with his bare hands in his agony.

“ _Please_ ,” he pleads helplessly, his voice choked and desperate. “Please don’t leave me alone. Don’t go,  _don’t go_  (Name). Don’t leave me.”

He did not know he could cry before this day.

But he can feel it now. Cold and foreign sensation against his artificial skin.

“ _Thank you_   _Connor_ ,” you whisper weakly, and he crumbles at the sound of your voice. “Thank you for a lifetime of love and happiness. You made me so happy. You’ve always made me  _so happy—_ ” you trail off with a wet, hacking cough that rattles your fragile body.

He lays beside you gently, running his fingers softly down your head over and over again as he tries to sooth your pain.

He holds you for hours.

And he can feel the exact moment you  _leave_.

Because there is a crack somewhere deep inside of him that smashes something vital to pieces.

He does not let go, not until doctors have to forcefully remove him.

He could stop them of course, but he doesn’t.

Once upon a time there was the sun ( _you_ ) and gravity ( _you_ ) holding Connor to the Earth.

Now there is  _nothing_.

**.  .  .**

He does not attend the funeral.

He does not go near your grave for two weeks.

He lasts longer than he ever expected.

The headstone is new and smooth, and the warm summer breeze makes the atmosphere almost pleasant as Connor watches the sun reflect off the shiny stone.

 **RECONSTRUCT**  [ **x** ]

His eyes flicker, and between one blink and the next there you are, standing right next to your own grave.

“Why are you doing this to yourself Connor?” you ask softly, sadly, as you glance at him over your shoulder.

You look exactly the same as you did the day he met you and he likes that. Likes the fact that his memory cache was at least capable of this small mercy.

“Because I need to let go,” he tells you honestly, and reaches for you. But his fingers sail through the spot you are standing in, and you look down hopelessly towards his empty hand. “And I wanted to see you one last time before I do.”

“Oh, Connor.”

He smiles; a brief, broken smile at the sound of your voice speaking his name once again.

The gun in his hand feels strangely heavy and he wonders why.

Deep down he thinks he knows  _why_.

(“ _Why would a God grieve for a Firefly that is destined to fade away into oblivion?_ ”)

Because in the Firefly’s  _love_ a God can find the meaning in  _eternity_.

Your face is the last thing Connor sees before his eyes close.

“ _Wait for me, firefly, please wait for me_.”

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this drabble as part of my "nightly drabbles" series on tumblr but something about this particular piece just...connected with me very, very deeply. So I decided to share it on this platform as well. 
> 
> I’ve been asked a few times what I think would happen if Connor had a human S/O that eventually passed away, be it from old age or some illness. This is my reply to that. In my head, this is an /absolute/.


End file.
